Iceheart
by terriku
Summary: Or, the story of three sisters bound in blood and soul to one land.
1. rime

On her wedding day, she wore a veil of lace so delicate, it looked like frost had set in her hair. Her handmaidens crooned and cooed but none could melt the icy resolve on her face. Ashe was doing what she had to do to keep this land safe. Her gown was white and blue, with flaring skirts and three petticoats. They placed a cowl of white fox fur around her shoulders and she was beautiful and glowing. None would dare to call her warm. All the jewels and furs in the world could not make Ashe a loving, blushing bride.

Tryndamere took her hand in his as she placed a crown on his head and pressed a disgusting kiss to her lips afterwards. Ashe resigned herself to this day and all the days to come.

From then on, her days settle into an uneasy pattern. She wakes, someone combs her hair, and she breaks her morning fast at Tryndamere's right hand. He asks her about her rest, a stupid question that she never deigns with an answer. He never gives up. Ashe wonders if she must resign herself to this too. After that, she takes to castle walls and walks until some unfortunate maid must come and summon her back. If her gaze lingers a little longer on the horizon, no one mentions it. And if her thoughts stray to a different type of freedom, one that does not involve crowns or wars or titles or _responsibilities_, then Ashe does not acknowledge it.

Through noon and up until supper, they sit on their twin thrones and listen to all the problems of the Freljord. Farmers, soldiers, nobles, they all gather in her hall, their hall, for a chance to speak. Everyday it is the same chant. They call for arms, they call for war, for battle, for blood. None seem to notice the slight flinch of Ashe's indifferent frown. No one catches the glint of hard, cold anger in her blue, blue eyes. No one except Tryndamere who covers her hand and clasps it as if to comfort her. She almost kills him right then and there for the indignity of it. But she does not. Because this marriage is all that keeps the gentle balance of peace. And Ashe thinks, she would resign herself to anything for peace.

Later, she will regret not killing Tryndamere because the council will decide to go to war with the Winter's Claw. Though they do not share chambers, she can think of twenty different ways to end the barbarian's miserable life. She thinks, that maybe if she'd did a little less resigning and a little more killing, then they wouldn't be here discussing the proposed annihilation of another tribe. Not any tribe, she remembers. Try as she might, Ashe cannot resign herself to the idea of her arrow in Sejunai's throat. She knows that she will do it. She always does what must be done. But that does not make it any easier. Ashe thinks on this for days, until she cannot even sleep.

This is how Tryndamere finds her, on the sixth day, when her eyes are tired and her fighting spirit dead. She cannot even bring herself to hate him when he sits beside her. He does not clasp her hand, a sign that maybe he has learned the ways of his frigid wife. He sits. He waits. And, perhaps most importantly, he listens.

"She was like my sister," she confesses in a whisper so low that only he could hear.

Tryndamere gave her hand a squeeze, as if to offer comfort. "And she is still your sister," he promised.

And Ashe felt the ice in her heart give way, and she believed. Peace was not a dream.


	2. hail

This is what Ashe lacks: a heart as hard as ice.

This is what Ashe lacks: the will to take up arms.

This is what Ashe has: a dream of peace and other pretty things that do not exist in their world.

Sejuani could feel her hair pressed thick against the back of her neck. It was getting long. Ashe kept her hair vainly long, so long that it reached down her back and hung just below her hips. That thought alone made her mad. She gripped the dagger so tight, her knuckles turned white as snow. Sejuani sawed at her hair until it fell to the ground in uneven clumps. She felt the raw bite of her short hair on her neck. She could feel the frost settling there, could feel the wind carving furrows as if through snow. And she knew it was _right_.

She led her people to the highest of mountains, where everything was basalt and ice, where fires sometimes refused to start, and she knew it was right. Let Ashe and her people dream of mountain valleys and sunshine. Let Ashe and her people trust the barbarians. Sejuani took no truce, listened to no plea, let no messenger live and she knew she was right. Ashe would too when the crops did not flourish, when the barbarians raised their blades. She pressed leather to her skin, felt the hard chafe of it against her chest, her thigh, her waist, and she knew it was right. Sejuani sat in her saddle and looked down at her men, and she screamed "War! Blood and death! Victory! Honor!" and when her tribe screamed back, she knew it was right.

Let foolish Ashe dream summer dreams. Sejuani knew that no sunlit peace could fill the bellies of their men. Their people were carved from thousand-year ice, and their Queens and Kings ruled with iron-clenched fists. They won respect through blood. That same blood ran in her veins and she knew, as surely as she felt the hunger for battle in her stomach, that peace was no option. Peace would destroy the Freljord.

Ashe would know this too when there was an iron blade between her ribs. But Sejuani would not let it come to that. She will not let Ashe die on the swords of Demacians, of Noxians, of Tryndamere or his barbarians. That is not right. Ashe is a daughter of the Freljord, and she may be foolish, but Sejuani does not forget. Once they were sisters. Once, they sat around the same fire and sang the same songs. Sejuani did not need memories to know what she would do. She would send Ashe to the Halls of the Dead herself. And maybe, when all their earthly dues had been paid, they could be sisters again in death. It would be right.

This is what Sejuani lacks: a kind heart.

This is what Sejuani lacks: a forgiving soul.

This is what Sejuani has: an understanding of this land and their people deeper than glacier drifts.


	3. blackice

This is a story older than time and scrubbed from the world. Once there were three sisters with hair as white as snow and eyes bluer than ice. They ventured far to the north, and there, they met the ancient ones. The ancient ones offered gifts, magic, immortality in an attempt to capture the sisters.

"Come to us and we will give you wisdom unmeasurable," to the eldest. "No", said Avarosa as she lifted her bow of ice, "I need no such thing from you."

They turned to the second, "Come to us and we will give you strength unrivaled." Brave Serylda scoffed as she raised her bola, "I already have all the strength I need."

And then, they turned to the third, to the youngest, Lissandra, and they said, "Come to us and we will give you power eternal." Lissandra raised her head and she asked, "But what do I need power for?" In that question, the Watchers found weakness.

In the nights, they whispered in her ears, of war and blood and death. They sent her dreams of her noble sisters dead. Bright scarlet red splayed across pale skin and pure hair—Defiled. Defeated. Destroyed. Lissandra dreamed each and every day of their doom. What were dreams slowly became reality. She saw Avarosa take a husband that would one day betray her. She saw Serylda slay monsters that would one day come for revenge. She saw the beginning of their doom. She saw the fracturing of the Freljord. So one day she turned to the Watches and she asked: "How do I protect them?"

And they said: "Come with us."

And she did.

They bleed her dry until there was no warmth left in her body. Lissandra did not scream. She thought of brave Serylda who never screamed even when the wounds were deep to the bone. They filled her with ice. Lissandra did not cry. She thought of wise Avarosa who never shed tears even when there was no hope. They gave her magic. They gave her immortality. They gave her power.

They took her sisters from her. Even now, centuries and millennium later, she does not forget the look of disgust etched across Serylda's face, the look of utter disappointment on Avarosa's. She forgets the treacherous collapse of stone, the crack of ice, the sting of defeat, but she does not forget this. Even in her sleep, she does not forget. _For you_, Lissandra whispers as she settles into a new host, _always, forever for you_.

Time passes. The cycles continue. Lissandra sees now what she could not have seen as a child. The Watchers were right. Humans were but pawns to their fates. Even her proud sisters had fallen to destiny. She alone, endures.

As the world turns on a new age, Lissandra plans her moves. She stands on a sheer cliff far above a meeting. Below her, two women stood, each with an army at their backs. She knew without doubt which one was Serylda's blood, and which one was Avarosa's. The two princesses of the Freljord. Their white hair flew like banners in the bitter wind. White hair. Lissandra allowed herself to laugh. Ice ran in their blood, and it seemed, time did not dull that. She raised her hands to the skies. _Sisters_, she thinks, _sisters do you see me now? I will make the world our kingdom._

* * *

The last of this small collection. I was never very interested in Lissandra's story, so it should come as no surprised that her part is the weakest. Originally, I wanted the tying focus of this set to be how each of them felt about their homeland. Instead, the familiar element in each of these small chapters seems to be their hair. Oh well._  
_


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